


His Hair Grows Longer

by clandestine7



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ace Yuuri, Drabble, M/M, Romance, basically G rated except one non-explicit sex scene, more like the buildup, warning for animal death too but also not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8433763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestine7/pseuds/clandestine7
Summary: Victor’s hair is getting longer. When Yuri asks him why he’s growing it out, he smiles and says, “To keep me warm during the winter.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! YOI has been leaving me breathless every week, and last night I was hit by a bolt of inspiration and typed this up and posted it on tumblr. I'm so proud of it that I decided to transfer it over here too. I've only read one YOI fic so far (also on tumblr) so I don't really know the conventions for the Yuris' character names. In this, Katsuki Yuuri is Yuri, and I just call Yurio Yurio (sorry kid). Enjoy!

Victor’s hair is getting longer. When Yuri asks him why he’s growing it out, he smiles and says, “To keep me warm during the winter.”

“Are you a bear?”

Victor props himself up on an elbow. “To try something new, then. Or something old, I suppose.” He grins. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I do,” Yuri says, running his fingers through the soft silver strands. They reach Victor’s chin, and tickle Yuri’s chest when Victor kisses his way up, finally reaching his mouth.

* * *

The snow falls, and the air steals through invisible cracks in the house, aggressively frigid. They’re both used to cold climates, but they both luxuriate under the kotatsu all the same.

“We didn’t need to buy a bed,” Victor says through a long yawn. He rolls onto his side, nudging his knees and feet between Yuri’s. His toes are still icy, but he’s persistent, not letting Yuri flinch away.

“But this uses electricity while a bed doesn’t,” Yuri says, trying to sound stern but melting as soon as Victor makes a sleepy, displeased sound. “Hey, you’re getting old, you know. When are you going to act your age?”

“As long as my hair stays full and healthy, I’ll act as young as I please. And twenty-nine is the new twenty-three.”

“Mm-hm,” Yuri says, trying not to let drowsiness overtake him. Victor’s fingers slip beneath the bottom of his shirt, patter against his hipbone. Victor does that when he’s thinking - drum his fingers against whatever surface is available.

“Hey, I’m still good-looking, aren’t I?”

Yuri drags his eyes open. Cheek against the floor, Victor’s pout is playful, but there is a hint of honesty that his blue eyes cannot hide in their clarity.

Yuri chuckles. “Of course you are. You’re still a spitting image of the Russian playboy, stunning looks that set hearts ablaze, ice god on ice.” He yawns. “Oh, did I just say ice twice?”

Victor catches Yuri’s yawn and yawns back, and then Yuri does the same. It’s contagious, the heat of the kotatsu is contagious, the heat of Victor’s palm on his side is contagious. No, not contagious, that’s not the right word. But Yuri’s thoughts slip peacefully away.

* * *

“Are you nervous?” Victor asks. 

Yuri frowns over at him. “Of course I’m nervous. Are you?”

Victor smirks. “Of course not.” His fingers slip from Yuri’s, and he glides out onto the empty ice.

Their very own rink, and lessons begin tomorrow. Yuri’s nervous about coaching, but Victor assures him that he’ll be fine. They’ll be doing it together, after all.

Victor’s hair reaches between his shoulder blades, and whips around as he twists and turns over the ice. He wears it braided, and painstakingly taught Yuri how to do it for him - “Because it’s more meaningful when your lover does your hair.”

“You don’t do my hair,” Yuri had said, struggling with the slippery strands. 

“Au contraire,” Victor said, turning from the mirror. He ran his fingers through Yuri’s hair a few times, pushing it back off his forehead and reminding Yuri of all the moments before competitions, Victor circling him with hair gel and hair spray, fixing the strands into perfect place before finishing off with a quick peck on the lips. “That’s French for ‘You’re very sexy’.”

Yuri raised his eyebrows. “What’s French for ‘You’re very shameless’?”

Victor said something in Russian, in a voice that sent a shiver through Yuri’s body and heat straight to his cheeks.

“Yuuuu-ri!” Victor calls from the middle of the rink. “You’re not really that nervous, are you? Come on out!”

* * *

“How long are you going to grow it?” Yuri asks.

Victor stares up at him, his hair fanned out over the pillows, errant locks falling over his chest, which rises and falls in anticipation.

“I think I’ll cut it soon. Oh? You look upset.”

“No, it’s not that,” Yuri says hastily, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’ve just gotten used to it.”

“Yes, well, so have I,” Victor says. His legs shift, thighs warm against Yuri’s hips. He’s always so patient, knowing that for Yuri there is always something a little bit difficult in this. Their desires are nearly the same but never quite meet. Yuri has never been able to explain it eloquently, but Victor always waits, and it does feel good in the end. 

“It gets annoying, though,” Victor says, taking up the thread of conversation easily. “Always getting tangled. And I’m always shedding hairs. They’re so long, they cling like spiderwebs sometimes. Hm? What is it?”

Yuri blinks rapidly. He’d been staring, enraptured by the slightest shifts in Victor’s expression - the furrow of his brow, the crinkle of his nose, the way his lips move as he speaks. The subtle stretch of his neck this way and that. Victor is always so animated, even when he’s hardly moving at all.

“Nothing,” Yuri says. “I mean - you’re just beautiful - that’s all.” He trips over his words, and the laugh Victor lets out is all breath and endearment.

Makkachin paws at the door, whining to get inside. This always makes Yuri blush, even though the dog doesn’t know what’s going on.

“I guess I should hurry it up.”

Victor’s arms loop around his neck. “Take your time, my little prince,” he says, before receiving Yuri’s kiss, warm and ready.

* * *

Makkachin slows down very suddenly, and Victor’s worry fills the house, making it hard to breathe.

“He doesn’t jump around anymore. Do you think his joints hurt? Do you think - ?” Victor can’t finish the question, but Yuri understands.

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t have a limp, so I don’t think he’s in pain. We can take him to the vet if you want.”

The vet finds nothing wrong with Makkachin, and tells them that it’s old age. They do all they can to make him happy and comfortable, but he deteriorates quickly. Yuri runs the skating rink on his own, while Victor tries to shunt aside his grief for Makkachin’s sake in the last couple of weeks.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuri says, and he can’t be soothing about it because he’s crying as well, because Makkachin was his as well.

Victor’s hair reaches his waist, but the tears only reach the bits that stick to his face, tendrils all over his cheeks and chin.

Yuri wasn’t around to witness the end for Vicchan, and for the first time, he finds age terrifying.

* * *

“Yuri, wake up, how are you still asleep?”

Yuri rolls over in bed, pulling the covers tighter around his head.

“You’re going to be late.”

“Why do I have to go in today? It’s your day to teach lessons.”

“Because I’m sick,” Victor says, beginning to sound impatient. His foot taps on the floor.

“You sound fine to me.”

Victor lets out a blustery sigh. “Fine. I’ll go then.”

Yuri cringes as Victor stomps around the room. When the front door slams, Yuri’s guilt is so extreme it takes him an hour longer to climb out of bed.

And when Victor returns, they blurt their apologies at the same time. Strands fall out of Victor’s braid. Yuri broke a mug making coffee, and the shards sit in the sink. It’s in imperfect day. They happen.

“Let me buy you lunch,” Yuri says.

Victor smiles, softer than usual. Each reconciliation is a relief to them both. And their spats remind them that they’re still young, if they can fight over such trivial things.

“No tonkatsu for you, though.”

“Fair enough,” Yuri says, breaking into a smile of his own. 

* * *

“I’m going to Russia,” Victor says, climbing under the covers. “The plane leaves in a week, and you’re coming, and we’ll be there for a month.”

It has always been agreed upon that Victor can go home whenever he wants, that homesickness doesn’t have to be a thing he suffers, but he’s always insisted that traveling so much during his career keeps him from getting homesick much.

“Okay,” Yuri agrees at once.

“Yurio says to bring gifts.”

“Did Yurio say please?”

Victor bumps their noses together, then their foreheads. “It’s Yurio. Of course not.”

“You’d think the reigning world champion several times over would have learned a bit of humbleness.”

“It’s Yurio,” Victor reiterates, tucking his head beneath Yuri’s chin.

“Of course,” Yuri says, draping his arm over Victor’s waist. “How could I have forgotten.”

* * *

The next morning, Victor shakes Yuri awake and says excitedly, “Cut my hair.”

“Huh?” Yuri says, only half-conscious. He reaches around for his glasses, and knocks them off the bedside table.

“My hair,” Victor says. “Cut it all off.”

Yuri tries to drag the pillow over his face, but Victor snatches it and tosses it aside. He pulls Yuri out of bed and into the bathroom, then runs back to the bedroom to retrieve Yuri’s glasses. Sticking them on Yuri’s nose, he says, “I’m ready for short hair again.”

Yuri blinks, sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes. A pair of scissors is pressed into his hand.

“I’ve never cut anyone’s hair in my life.”

“That’s okay,” Victor says, too exhilarated about the whole thing, smiling too brightly. “I believe in you.” He turns around and says, “Go.”

Yuri cuts a straight line across, just above Victor’s shoulders, or as straight a line as he can manage. The locks fall to the floor, like feathers all over his toes.

Of course it’s a bad idea. But Yuri isn’t awake enough to be Victor’s impulse control, and Victor doesn’t look into the mirror until it’s all done.

“Oh no,” Victor says, eyes going wide. He claps his hands to his head. “Yuri, quick, give me the number of the best hairdresser in town.”

“I don’t know who that is! You know my mom still trims mine when we visit.”

“Yuri, this is an emergency. I can’t go to Russia like this!”

Yuri climbs back into bed. Victor runs around with the phone pressed to his ear.

* * *

“Yuri,” Victor says quietly, the night before their flight. “I’m thirty years old.”

“You look younger with short hair,” Yuri says sleepily, turning his face into the pillow.

Victor’s lips touch his ear. “But I’m _thirty_.”

Yuri rolls over, and Victor makes room for him. In the moonlight, they hold each other’s gaze.

In quiet moments like this, when reality is so present, when the world goes still except for the two of them, he’ll wonder if it’s all real after all. If he isn’t still walking away from Victor after that devastating Grand Prix. Has his life really taken on so many perfect impossibilities? Or is he just dreaming it all?

Victor blinks. The blankets rustle as he shifts.

No, Yuri isn’t dreaming, because time has continued.

“Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

Victor’s expression softens, and he kisses Yuri, long and soft. Yuri’s heart thumps, steady and at peace. Tomorrow they will be on a plane, and tonight they will sleep deeply. They settle, body heat warming the blankets. Yuri blows some hair out of his face before letting out a sigh of contentment.

He’s starting to need a haircut.


End file.
